Naivete
by Marystormshade
Summary: "Every man has his thorns, not of him but in him, deep as bones. The scars of the world mark him, a calligraphy of violence, a message of blood-writ, requiring a lifetime to translate. And she, the eyes of everyone who ever cared."During the third era, the year 427, six years before the Oblivion crisis: a fighter, hunter, dealer of death, and thief end up face to face with destiny.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Here's my attempt at a TES fanfiction. *Goes to sleep***

Evening Star extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving sleet, and Morning Star arrived, cold winding through the ground, like whispers from the tree's, bottom up, frozen hands biting. With hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bit at exposed skin and faces.

Calloused palms pressed against each other, entering a fierce rub as moist hot breath beat down on them.

"Cold as shit." The owner of the palms declared, slapping his hands a few more times for good measure. The man, thin black hair thinning on his scalp, scratched at his chin as he looked about his camp and motley group. Wasn't everyday that a band of Highwaymen stuck to a single camp for more than two nights. Hell, they'd been here four.

"Aye. Ain't a thing to do though." Another, older voice replied, tired and hoarse sounding. A belch came from the same direction followed by snickers.  
"I wonder if the lass is getting cold? Needs somebody to keep her company I'm sure."

All pairs of eyes revolved past the fire. The Breton girl that they'd captured was still there, feet bound to themselves, arms bent at painful angles and thick leather trapping her neck, knees and ankles to the tree she sat near. They hadn't bothered to cover her mouth, figuring their threats to be sufficient enough. It was almost comical, if not for the tear streaks filming across her cheeks, dried blood echoing her nostrils and terror filling her eyes.

Who were they kidding? It was pretty damn funny.

One of the younger members, a wrily lad with bones for brains, tried his luck as he walked over jauntily. His fingers found her knees as he leered at her.

The reaction was...expected.

Kicking out the Breton strained against her bonds with new found passion. A startled sob wracked her as she pulled on her wrists vehemently. She even managed to knock the lad down on his ass for all his trouble.

"Leave the girl alone will ya. She's makin' a right ruckus and I'd rather be sleeping." Came the aggravated voice of another man, clearly fed up with the groups shenanigans.

The girl shivered.

"Shut up." Another slap of hands, application of friction, and the first man stood up.  
"That's not how this is gonna work. Nobody touches the girl. You hear me?"

Grunts went around the camp but the young bone for brain was glaring at the girl.

The man went towards him, fingers wagging so as to continue circulation.

"I said; Do you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now sit down. Watch that Skeever. Don't want it charred now. Bloody riot that would be."

The belching older man rolled to his feet, fixing his gaze on the balding man; who had was clearly the leader of the group.  
"We can't stay here forever Stentus. It isn't healthy for bandits to be still for so long. The men are getting restless, they need a good raid." He glanced over at the Breton. "A good screw too maybe."

Stentus blew through his lips, a thin stream that tickled the wind.

"What would you have me do, hmm? The whole bloody lot of them guards are looking for Fat Ramp. No. We need to stay here, keep our heads down… We can go lookin' for some trouble later. For now, just shut up and stay down." Stentus turned and headed away from the fire, toward the dense underbrush and thick tree's. Most likely to relieve himself.

The belching man lingered a bit longer before he too scoffed, and with a final glance in the Breton's direction, made way for his tent.

Xxxxxxxx

He held no qualms with the wildlife surrounding Skingrad. He did however, hate stickle bushes with a passion. The things bit into his cloak, tore at his ankles and even tried their luck infiltrating his shoe. Quite a few of them succeeded.

No, Lucien Lachance generally enjoyed the outdoors, but tonight, his patience had long since departed him.

It wasn't the dead drop, no, that in itself was a simple enough task; any reasonably skilled initiate could complete it. Find the bandit camp, kill this Stentus fellow: the chief, and leave no witnesses. What did annoy him however was the four day trek by horse (Not Shadowmere mind you, no, no, the black hand had required him for some other business), in the snow, with no definite location of where to find his target.

It was a good thing he had a knack for listening to rumors.

A few people had referred to them as Highwaymen, others, Bandits. Lucien prefered ruffians, but that's just arguing semantics.

The guards of Skingrad had shoved him off with a general "to the east". Which also happened to be where it was snowing the heaviest.

Lucien cradled his hands in his lap thoughtfully. Perhaps, he decided, he would stop in the Imperial city on his return trip. After all, he hadn't gotten to enjoy the view on his last trip, far too busy washing the blood from his boots.

Sensing in his fingertips a change of approach, Lucien reigned in his horse, calming it for a moment with a thrum of fingers against the tips of its nostrils. With the grace of one practiced in the art, Lucien maneuvered himself out of the saddle his feet landing firmly in the crust of the ground. He halfheartedly wrapped the horse's harness to a branch, not particularly caring if it decided to wander off.

He crouched and listened.

A cold wind raced across the surrounding trees, turning the land into a heaving dark-green and white sea. It flew up through the branches of the pines and rattled the thin leaves. Sometimes a snow pile would break loose, tumble in the gale, fall and split, filling the night with its powder. The air was iron and heavy and growth.

He walked and tried to pull these things into his lungs, the silence and coolness of them. He had once been told of Sithis by a previous black hand member, his own recruiter if he recalled correctly (long since dead). The old withered man had described the endless void in a few choice words and raspy breaths.

_A perfect, cloudless midnight, cold as winter ice and shrouded in shadow. That is Sithis, the black nothingness of and before creation._

Lucien breathed out.

An itching began in his toes, curling and crawling its way up to his chest where it clenched and cradled him. He smiled, and snuck forward.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Oh look chapter two. Fun fun fun. Read and review, I appreciate attention. **

***There's is mild violence in this chapter**

She was running out of options, but running out wasn't an option. Her wrists ached and chafed under constant struggle, her feet were numb as she shifted them closer to herself and stared into the fire.

Steady.

She breathed out heavily through her mouth, a puff of fog escaped from her lips and she watched it critically, waiting for it's dispersion. She switched her gaze to the fire a moment before nestling her face against her knees. Shutting her eyes she allowed her mind to drift, before her breath began to even, body slacken, and lips part as sleep overtook her.

XXXXXXX

His eye's swept along the edge of the camp. All but a few of the men had retired, not including the Breton girl who he had initially not noticed, and were sitting about the fire meandering and appearing relatively exhausted.

He counted six tents in total, each with enough room for about two moderately sized men (or women). He doubted however that these tents were filled to capacity.

He glanced at the Breton girl, curled in on herself, clearly sleeping. Her braided sable brown hair fell to her side. He noted vaguely that she snored lightly.

Three men sat near the fire, none very interested in anything around them other than the fire and the occasional swig of mead.

Lucien cocked his head, he had of course heard stories of these bandits, raiding and raping in near equal quantities, the attack of many a merchant caravan, and paltry murder here and there. He considered all these things as he crouched a bit lower, and moved toward the tent farthest from the fire.

It's occupant looked to be a man in his mid thirties, gruff and dark skinned.

Lucien shrugged, as he had not been given a description of his immediate target.  
Probably best to kill them all then.

Gripping the hilt of his dagger, (a simple steel thing; sharp and clean, but not very flashy) he swiftly pressed his unoccupied hand onto the mans mouth, using this new leverage to push the man's head toward his chest. The man's eye's flashed open in panic and surprise, but Lucien moved quickly, a dragging motion, a gush of blood, and the man's eyes closed.

The process was repeated similarly once more in the adjacent tent. Resting on his heels, Lucien pressed himself into a corner and listened. By now two of the three men around the fire had left either to sleep or relieve themselves. He waited a moment before slipping out through the crack of the cloth. Sneaking toward a drowsy young man near the fire, he centered his blade and swallowed in air. There was a deft crack as the metal pushed past ribs and into the chest cavity of the now gasping man. Lucien stood to his full height, pulling the dagger upwards with him, cutting through the muscle. As he pulled back, the man let out a gut curdling screech as he fell to his side, falling to silence.

The other's were slow to react, some not even initially hearing the scream. One man appeared from the tree's, grasping at his trowsers and axe both, clearly caught off guard. Lucien, seeing an opportunity, propelled himself forward; knocking the axe wielder off balance. The axe dropped out of his hands as he tripped backwards, eyes wide, and landed bum first in the modestfire. Lucien pounced on the man, cracking his foot down onto the his chest, knocking him to his back and effectively holding him, until his person was nearly completely engulfed in yellow flame.

The other men have entered the dimly lit clearing now, there's only four of them left. They all stare at Lucien, as though the ground has coughed him into existence but moments ago. A burly man (clearly the leader, and possibly Stentus) grinds his teeth and raises his greatsword slightly.

"Get the bastard!"

XXXXXXX

She had shot up and out of her reverie upon hearing the cry and crunch of bone, eyes wide as she watched a figure move in her line of sight, tall and cloaked in shadow, the figure surged towards the four bandits who stood in front of it, weapons raised. The figure held a glint of metal in its hand that cut through the still white air like charcoal on parchment, and each time the dagger was brought down, making contact with armor and skin, the figure would skip backwards, snow crunching beneath it.

She gasped as suddenly only two men remained. Biting her tongue she threw her head back and squeezed her eyes shut until it hurt and the black of her sight became a stinging and oppressive red. Tears slipped through and froze to her cheeks. She kept them closed.

Another moment or two passed before a relative silence took over the campsite. The only noise was the gargle of dying men.

She opened her eyes slowly and tried not to scream.

It was looking straight at her

The figure was a tall man with thin black hair that seemed to be pulled back underneath his hood. The garb he wore consisted of a dark wool winter overcoat, draped over an even darker outfit of black and red (she couldn't tell if the red was part of the fabric or the blood of the dead bandits). A black hand was smeared over the red section of his coat, near his heart. Clearly an insignia of his faction.

She cried out when she saw it, hysteria peaking.

Sharp hazel eyes found her face and observed her critically. His gaze lingers momentarily, before he steps over the corpses and moves onto the tents, rustling through the items.

She felt blood rush to her head, her stomach tightening and shrinking, as if something dangerous had missed hitting her. She feels as though she'd been caught doing something immoral. There's a flush of shame, of guilt and terror, and of cold disgust with herself. She sniffs and swallows her tongue.

"W-what are you doing?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy, like a sparrow thats lost the energy to fly.

A smooth voice calls back:

"Supplies. I'm running low."

Despite her fear, she found herself incredulous and doubtful. Somehow she doubted that this had all been for supplies.

"Who are you?" She cries out suddenly, impatiently, scared.

At this point the man exits the tent, a slightly bulging bag in his hands. He looks up at her a moment, before moving to the bodies, patting vigorously against the underside of the armor and clothing.

The man's silence unnerves her, so she decides to speak:

"I'm Ajal Litav. I used to-" He stops her with a sharp chop of his hand, indicating his disinterest and wish for the subject to end. Ajal complies, blinkingly.

The man stands, pockets a bit heavier, and makes to leave. Ajal begins panicking, she tugs on her bonds, enunciating her current situation.

The man keeps walking away.

"You can't just leave me here!" She screeched at him.

"On the contrary," he drawls, "I am perfectly capable of leaving you here, to freeze. Unless you'd prefer to travel with me, Lady Ajal?"

She stops her struggles and looks up at him, his eyes are cold and his left hand rests on the hilt of his dagger, daring her to speak of it. She see's the red on his shoes and on the ground. She remembers the sound of the men dying. She see's the cut of his knife.

Ajal pushes against the tree and breathe's out.

"I didn't think so." The man say's, almost amused. He turns and begins to walk away again, before pausing, sighing, and rummaging through his pockets.

Ajal's eye's open at the feel of a foreign weight on her stomach, and she makes a noise of disbelief.

On her lap is a small dagger, iron in origin, and not nearly worthy of a spec of praise, but at the moment it is a saving grace among the white and red of the forest. She looks up for the man, a smile on her face, but frowns when she notices that he's already left.


End file.
